Aster amellus
by Lachesis Grimm
Summary: In which three-year-olds are rambunctious, Tony and Pepper save the day, and Jemma turns thirty. (One-shot sequel to In the Garden. Phil Coulson/Jemma Simmons)


"A flower blossoms for its own joy."  
― Oscar Wilde

It must be said that three-year-olds are not the greatest of assets in the kitchen, but Phil had to give Rosie points for her dedication, cheerful attitude, and her general cuteness, over all. She grinned up at him, mouth sticky from the fruit that she had been snitching from the cutting board- a cutting board that no longer had a knife anywhere near it, because Phil liked his daughter's fingers attached to her own small hands.

The tray he had assembled was not the most elegant of presentations (the more delicate china had been tucked away for a few more years, at least), but he felt satisfied with it. There was only so much one could do when including a small child in breakfast preparations, and Phil would far rather encourage his daughter's interest in the culinary arts than shoo her away.

Hell, there were times when he was still awed to finding her standing beside him, tugging on his hands and asking to be picked _up, Daddy, up._

"Daddy."

That name he had never expected to have, and now heard a hundred times a day. He loved it. "Yes, sweetheart?"

"Play a game after breakfast?" she asked, face hopeful. "With Mummy?"

"We can definitely play a game, but we'll have to see how Mummy feels."

"'Cause she's tired," Rosie said with a serious nod. "'Cause of the baby."

"Exactly. Growing a baby is very hard work."

"At least we're not running for our lives this time," Clint said in a low voice, having caught Phil's words as he entered the kitchen. "That helps." He tossed Rosie into the air when she scrambled toward him, grinning as she gave a delighted squeal. "Having a good morning, Rosiebug?"

"Higher!"

Any higher and she would be hitting the ceiling.

"You are, good." Clint turned back to Phil. "You grab the tray; I'll open the doors and wrangle the octopus."

The growl Rosie made indicated that she might have confused the noble octopus with some kind of wild cat, but it was adorable.

"I hope you're looking forward to tonight," Clint told Rosie as they processed across the garden, the girl slung over his shoulder and giggling. "I have tracked down the finest of over-priced, imported frozen pizzas, all for you."

"Yes!" She lifted her head, hair still in her eyes. "I wanna watch _Mulan_."

"You have the best taste in movies."

Clint cracked open the door, stepping away to put Rosie back on her feet as Phil took the opportunity to slip inside the bedroom. Best to wake Jemma gently while Rosie was distracted.

The tray he placed on his bedside table before kneeling on the bed beside his sleeping wife, watching as her eyelids fluttered once his weight dipped his side of the mattress. "Hey," he murmured, brushing a loose lock of hair away from her face. "Fair warning: Rosie's about to catapult into the room."

She laughed sleepily in response to that. "Just don't let her land on my belly, and that will be fine." She opened her eyes, blinking slowly. "Is that tea?"

"All for you."

He would have said more, but at that moment Rosie shot into the room, a steady stream of "Mummy, Mummy, Mummy," falling from her lips. The door shut quietly behind her, Clint likely wandering off for his first cup of coffee.

Phil helped Jemma sit up against the headboard as Rosie scrambled onto the bed, the little girl bouncing on the mattress. "Hello, love," Jemma said warmly, holding out her arms. "Did you sleep well?"

Rosie didn't need to be warned; she gentled her movements once she reached her mother, curling up against Jemma's side for her morning hug. "Yes. Happy birthday."

"Thank you, Rosie." Jemma pressed a kiss to their daughter's crown, smoothing a hand over rumpled curls. This was a picture Phil never tired of seeing: his wife, their daughter, the now six-months worth of gestating baby rounding Jemma's stomach. "I think it's going to be a good day, don't you?"

"Hmm-hmm." Rosie bent over to press an ear to Jemma's stomach. "Is he coming out today?"

"Hopefully not for a few more months, love." Jemma cast a glance toward the tray, her stomach growling audibly (which, unsurprisingly, caused Rosie to giggle wildly).

"Time to feed your mother, I think." He gave Jemma a teasing grin as he settled the tray carefully beside her, keeping a hand on the rim to steady it when Rosie inevitably moved. "Don't worry about crumbs, Jem, I have clean sheets ready and waiting."

The fond look in her eyes turned amused. "My hero."

"You'll thank me later."

Her smile slowly shifted into something much more sultry. "I'm sure I will," she murmured agreeably, picking up a piece of buttered toast. "I look forward to thanking you for that."

"What?" Rosie asked innocently, staring up at them.

Hardly the worst question she would ever ask them, but Phil still froze.

"Laundry, dear." Jemma patted Rosie's hand, her expression now calm as could be. "Make sure you marry a man or woman who is good at laundry."

* * *

Rosie's idea of a good game generally involved running about wildly, but the cool temperatures and the way Jemma could no longer walk without waddling a tad seemed to convince her that an indoor activity would be acceptable.

"It probably helps that you're the birthday girl," Phil said with a sly grin, sliding his arms around her as Rosie pelted off to gather her two other favorite playmates. "Behold the power of the birthday."

"Birthdays might not be quite so powerful in her mind if someone hadn't spoiled her rotten when she turned three," Jemma replied archly.

"In my defense, she is the cutest three-year-old to ever grace the planet. Even Thor said so."

"Ah, yes. The other culprit." Not that Thor had _known_ what a Midgardian child's birthday was generally like. "And I thought Tony was the one to watch for. If we're not careful, Thor will give her an Asgardian pony for her next birthday, and then we'll be in trouble."

His gift to Rosie on her last birthday had been a music box, one so beautifully made that Jemma had been tempted to lock it in the safe next to her Asgardian jewels. It played unearthly, gorgeous music, and had become a necessary part of Rosie's bedtime routine. The fact that she wouldn't go to sleep without it was problematic, but Jemma had spent enough months (hell, _years_) scant on sleep to know a miracle when she saw one.

Phil chuckled, nuzzling his nose against her neck. "A pony… or a puppy bred by the Valkyries, or a fledgling hatched by one of Odin's ravens…"

"Oh dear." She snuck a peek over his shoulder, checking to be sure they were still alone. For the moment, the coast was clear. "Just to be clear, your wife is very much looking forward to birthday sex."

"What if Thor shows up with your very own pony?" he asked, his face hidden from her as he kissed the skin under one ear.

"He'll just have to wait. I have plans to engage in a different kind of riding." She couldn't reach around him anymore, at least not with both hands, but with a bit of effort she managed to grope his bum with one. "If you'll indulge me."

His hands smoothed over her curves in response as he pressed one last kiss to her neck before backing away. "I'm feeling very indulgent," he informed her, looking so damnably composed that she briefly considered dragging him back to their bedroom to do something about that.

"You'll still be feeling indulgent later, I hope," she said as Rosie called for them.

His smile, slow and sweet, was a very good reminder of why they currently had 1.5 children. "Odds are excellent, Jemma."

With that promise in mind (and feeling a bit fluttery, because even after several years of marriage he didn't have to do much to sweep her off her feet), she grabbed his hand and tugged him after her into the kitchen.

Natasha, who was stirring something in one of Phil's huge mixing bowls, looked up from her task with a wicked grin. "Don't worry," she said. "It'll wash out."

That was a complete and utter lie.

"It's non-toxic," Natasha said some thirty minutes later, apparently unconcerned by the blue handprints on her shirt and the streak of blue foam across one cheek. "I mean-"

Rosie, who was still gleefully patting shaving cream which had been doctored with cornstarch and food dye onto Clint's head, laughed as she sculpted the soft foam and his hair into spikes.

Jemma glanced down ruefully at her own hands, now smurf blue. "So the packaging says."

To be fair, the list of ingredients contained nothing that might make Jemma worry, at least from a biological point of view. This was simply a very obvious inconvenience.

"Blue is a good color on you."

Jemma exchanged a glance with Phil, who raised his own blue hands, grinning. "Blue is a good color on you, Jem." He winked, the gesture just saucy enough that she knew he was thinking of their first night together. "It should wash off in a few days."

"I'm sure it will." Until then, they would all look a little odd. "I suppose I should reconsider my outfit for tonight. My current dress of choice might clash with my hands."

"Matches the lingerie, though," Natasha murmured, and smirked when Phil's eyes widened. "What? Of course she wears blue for you, Phil. She's fascinated with your eyes."

She swept off as Jemma blushed. "Not that I should be embarrassed," Jemma admitted to him in a low voice. "Not after the fuss I made about the blue sheets a few years ago."

He merely took one of her hands in his, his fingers stroking lightly against her palm. "I like you in every color," he replied quietly, one fingertip brushing against the pulse point of her inner wrist. "Blue, red, pink… especially the shade of pink you blush when you're… excited."

Her blush increased. "Maybe we skip dinner and go straight to room service?"

"My genius wife."

When she glanced back at Rosie she found that Clint was giving them a mock-scandalized expression. Rosie continued playing with his hair, every hint of innuendo mercifully flying straight over her head.

_It's a wonder Rosie was an only child for so long_, Clint signed, ending the bit of communication with a playfully chiding _tsk_ that transcended language.

The British variant of the finger that Jemma shot him behind Rosie's back left him snickering.

Natasha eased back into the room, a disgruntled look on her face. "We have visitors."

"Fitz?" Jemma asked quizzically, just as Phil and Clint groaned.

"_Tony._"

"Close." Natasha smirked despite her evident annoyance. "Tony, Pepper… and your parents."

Jemma gaped at her for a second. "Together?" she asked in amazement, taking another (far more despairing) look at her hands and her comfortable, if unstylish, outfit. "I'm going to kill him."

"Separate cars," Natasha replied. "He's not that obtuse, Jemma. Though," she added, a thoughtful expression on her face, "if he's been keeping tabs on them like the-"

She paused, glancing at a very interested Rosie. "-_prepared_ man he is, it is possible that he decided to make the trip to intervene, so to speak."

"Ahh." That did make a certain amount of sense. Tony as Big Brother might be annoying, but his intentions were pure, to a certain extent. Jemma quickly took in her child (very blue) and her husband (rather less so) and the state of her kitchen (oh hell). "Maybe if we hide they'll eventually go away," she said in a hopeful tone of voice. "Could we text Pepper and-"

A very firm rap on their front door. "Agent!" Tony called. "We come bearing birthday cheer."

Clint stood, tucking a giggling Rosie under one arm. "I'll go unleash the blue devil on them."

"That might be enough to chase them away," Phil muttered once Rosie was out of earshot.

"I was not a rambunctious child." Jemma nudged on the tap at the sink with her elbow and began trying to scrub away the dye. "They don't know what to do with a three-year-old who won't sit still for hours on end with storybooks."

"They certainly got lucky with you." Phil joined her by the sink, smirking as they heard a muffled shriek. "I think that was your mother. I hope she wasn't too attached to whatever Rosie just put blue handprints all over."

"It was one of her cashmere cardigans, I just know it."

He frowned, taking her wet hands in his. "Please don't get upset, dear. I'm here to play bad guy; I'll toss them out without a qualm if they raise your blood pressure too high."

"I know." She gave the room one last despairing glance. "They have very unfortunate timing."

"Which I apologize for." Pepper, now standing in the doorway, eased the door to the living room shut behind her. There were blue handprints on her jeans, but she didn't seem to mind. "I didn't realize that Tony had Jarvis keeping tabs on your parents. I didn't even know we were coming here." She raised a brow, a frustrated expression on her face. "He told me we were spending the week in Barbados. I packed entirely the wrong wardrobe."

There was another shriek outside the house, though this one sounded suspiciously like a very happy small child being tossed into the air.

"She's going to start asking for wings, eventually," Phil said as they all turned slightly toward the sound.

"When Tony inevitably starts making them for her, I'll make sure he builds in safety controls," Pepper promised. "Anyway, my apologies."

"Perhaps you would be willing to act as a buffer?" Jemma asked, aware she sounded a tad desperate. "I love my parents, but within the hour they'll be asking me about what university Rosie will be attending, and when will I send her to a proper English boarding school, and will I stop being foolish and have this baby in an actual hospital, and- well, you get the picture."

Pepper- who so often had to play the straight-man to Tony's wild-card- nodded immediately in acceptance. "I would love to play buffer, even if that is what Tony dragged me here to do in the first place." She smirked. "And then Tony and I will be having a very serious chat."

"I have a taser you can borrow," Phil offered as they all began to walk toward the front door. His hand settled comfortingly on Jemma's lower back, and she felt a brief longing to rewind the day until she was once more in bed, drinking her tea as Phil sat nearby smiling and Rosie chattered in disjointed sentences about the baby and the dinosaurs in the jungle behind the house. "You can keep it, actually. It's the least I can do."

"I have my own, thank you. Darcy gave me one as a Christmas present last year."

"She is the expert."

* * *

Phil was pleased to see that there were blue handprints on Mary's cream cashmere sweater, though he wisely kept his amusement under wraps. "What a surprise," he said, careful to keep any censure out of his voice. "You should have called; we would have picked you up."

Natasha would have picked them up, or Clint, and then taken the most circuitous route possible back to the house- but there was no reason to admit that.

"Thirty is a milestone birthday," Mary said, hugging Jemma with obvious affection. "It should be spent with family."

The look Jemma cast him over her mother's shoulder perfectly expressed her desire to say _I thought I was._

"Do you always let Rosalind run wild like that?"

"Yes, Mum," Jemma replied with a remarkably straight face. "She's free-range."

Phil could almost see his plans for the evening dissolving into dust. Jemma would definitely not be in the mood if her mother continued on like that, and while it might not be Phil's birthday, he had been looking forward to a night of uninterrupted adult time with his delicious, voluptuous wife.

At least his father-in-law was behaving himself. Mark was kneeling down next to Rosie, listening to her talk a mile a minute about some unknown topic, and judging by the expression on his face he was quite happy to be doing so.

"I know this isn't my usual impeccable timing, Agent," Tony said quietly, sidling up beside him, "but I might have been snooping."

"Might have?"

"I was definitely snooping."

"So I see." Despite the circumstances Phil couldn't help but find the situation just a bit absurd, though that might have had something to do with Clint's blue spiked hair. "Planning on making it up to me, Tony?"

Pepper chose that moment to sneak into the mother-daughter reunion taking place in front of them, something that Jemma did not appear averse to.

"Whatever you need, Agent," Tony replied.

"Then find a fitting distraction for my in-laws that will last at least twenty-four hours. I have hotel reservations, and Clint has spent so much time telling Rosie of her promised pizza that if she doesn't get it there will be hell to pay."

"So I can't use the kid as a distraction?" Tony frowned thoughtfully. "She's a good distraction."

"I trust Clint and Nat to corral them, but Mary wouldn't approve of their planned agenda."

"Which is… pizza and weapons training?"

Phil grinned, remembering all too well what Jemma's parents had to say about the dangers of television when it came to young minds. "Worse. Pizza and Disney."

* * *

Eventually Jemma managed to get Rosie into a bath, though even after a good scrubbing her daughter still looked like a patchwork sky. Rosie was fascinated with her own skin, peering at her hands in the sunlight streaming through the bubbled glass of the window.

"Blue, blue, blue," she chanted in a sing-song fashion, smacking her hands down against the water.

"Very blue." Even her hair seemed to have a blue tinge. "What blue flowers do we know, love?"

"Scilla!"

"Scilla peruviana, very good. What else?"

"Ummm… phy- phys-"

Rosie paused. "Apple flower," she said after a moment, and beamed when Jemma grinned. "Apple flower!"

"Nicandra physalodes, the Apple-of-Peru. I'm very impressed." She cupped one hand against Rosie's hairline as she poured another cup of water over her head, washing away the last of the conditioner. "And some of the jacaranda have flowers as blue as your fingers."

As blue as Rosie's eyes, even. Jemma had a sneaking suspicion that when she finally met the babe still growing in her womb, her son would have those same startlingly blue eyes. The idea no longer worried her, at least not much.

"Your hands are blue, too."

"So they are, love." As were portions of the kitchen tile (Natasha's fault, at least, so she wouldn't be able to complain) and one of Phil's best mixing bowls. "Are you ready to get out?"

Had it been warm outside, Rosie might well have leapt out of the bath and gone streaking out into the garden in just her skin, but the chill (and perhaps a bit of birthday magic) had her climbing out of the tub in a much more peaceable fashion. She waited patiently as Jemma toweled her dry, humming a tune Jemma faintly recognized as one of Nat's favorite Russian drinking songs.

Phil (cleaner, but still blue) helped Rosie dress as Jemma showered away what dye she could. "They aren't leaving, are they?" she asked in a rather mournful fashion from the shower, and heard his responding chuckle as he did his best to bundle Rosie's hair into pigtails.

"No, but I'm not canceling our evening plans."

"Pizza?" she heard Rosie ask suddenly, and peeked around the door to catch a glimpse of her daughter's consternated expression. "Daddy, wanna watch _Mulan_."

"And you will, darling girl," he replied warmly, "Time for socks and shoes."

Rosie allowed him to pull socks onto her wriggling feet, and Jemma stepped back into the spray with a smile. "'Cause of Auntie May," Rosie said, seemingly in explanation.

She didn't need to look to know what expression was currently on Phil's face. "What was that, love?"

"_Auntie May_."

Not very enlightening.

Rosie preceded them into the living room at a run once they were all clean and dressed, catapulting herself at Tony. "Wanna fly again," she demanded, nearly hitting him on the head with her stuffed rabbit.

"I could take her out in the suit," he offered, and merely shrugged when everyone (other than her starstruck parents) gave him aghast looks. "Anyway, Mrs. A-"

He stopped, giving her parents a thoughtful look. "I mean, _Dr. Simmons_. Of the multiple degrees."

'Jemma' would have done just fine, but she appreciated his unaccustomed tact. "Yes, Tony?"

"As you are my most brilliant employee- and my favorite employee- I would love to entertain your parents for the evening and pick their brains about their admirable child-rearing skills."

"Planning on having a child, Tony?" Pepper asked in a barely audible murmur.

"Maybe."

"With whom?"

"With _science_."

Pepper looked as if she were resisting the dual urges to both strangle and laugh at her lover. "Dinner would certainly be an honor," she said instead, her voice smooth as silk. "And we would be pleased to offer you a place to stay for your time here."

"Oh, but-"

Pepper continued as if her mother had never spoken. "Steve would love to meet you."

Jemma had not been aware that Steve was in town- had Tony made some excuse about dragging him along on their supposed vacation?- but apparently even her parents were not immune to the lure that was Steve Rogers. "You might have something else in common with them, dear," she murmured to Phil in Limean. "You'll have to show them your comic book collection."

He draped an arm casually around her shoulders, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "I would _give_ them my collection if it would get me a night alone with you."

He really was terrible for her composure. "Do you think they dragged all of the other Avengers along with them?"

"I think Steve, Thor, and Bruce are all waiting back at their penthouse, comparing notes about your various and numerous virtues."

"Flatterer."

Her mother looked rather overwhelmed. "Oh. Well. Mark?"

"I'm sure Jemma could spare us for an evening," her father replied. "They probably have plans."

Really, Pepper was a miracle worker.

"We have amazing friends," Jemma sighed as her parents drove away with Pepper and Tony. "I don't think you can find thank-you cards for this."

"You saved the world once; I wouldn't worry about it." Phil's arms slid around her from behind, coming to rest on her bump. "We have hotel reservations at your favorite place," he said coaxingly. "Let's run away before they change their minds."

"It's barely afternoon," she pointed out, a grin creeping across her face.

"I'm sure I'll find some way to entertain you."

* * *

Rosie was ecstatic to see them go. "_Mulaaaaaaaaan_," she squealed, running around the living room. "Then another!"

"Been spending too much time with Thor," Natasha said in amusement, grabbing the child as she ran by and flipping her upside down. "Say goodbye to your parents."

"Then movies?" Rosie asked, dangling from Natasha's arms. "Two movies, Tashi."

"If you're good." Natasha placed the little girl back on her feet.

Rosie snuggled willingly into Phil's arms when he picked her up, smacking an enthusiastic kiss against his cheek. "Be good," she said sternly, her little face set in an excellent imitation of Natasha. "Let me kiss Mummy."

Stifling a laugh at her demands, he turned toward Jemma, drawing her into their little circle with his free arm. Rosie leaned forward and gave her mother a similar kiss on the cheek, small blue hands resting against her hair. "Be good."

Jemma's lips twitched in a valiant effort to keep her own laughter contained. "We'll do our best, love."

They left shortly after the movie began, Rosie snuggled between her godparents on the couch with an immense bowl of popcorn on her lap. "Vegetables," Phil told the adults in a warning tone, ignoring Rosie's giggle as he shook a finger at them. "Not just pizza."

"Corn," was Clint's reply, pointing to the bowl beside him. "I've got your back, Phil."

Whatever reply Phil might have made (which would have been light, because in truth a night without fresh vegetables would not be the end of the world) was dashed when the character of Fa Mulan first appeared on the screen.

"Auntie May!"

"Oh my God," Clint muttered, a piece of popcorn falling from limp fingers to his lap. "I love this kid."

Phil tugged Jemma after him out the door, finally allowing himself to laugh once it was locked behind him. "Are we telling May?"

"I think we should just wait and let Rosie ask for a song next time she visits." Jemma was laughing as well, though her laughter was cut off with a barely audible grunt. She pressed her hands against her stomach. "That wasn't very kind."

"Please tell me you aren't having contractions," he said with sinking dread.

"No, no. The baby is just using my body as a punching bag." She smiled brightly at him nonetheless. "Put the bags in the car, Phil. I believe I was promised uninterrupted lounging and an orgasm."

"More than one, I hope," he said in mock-offense, walking with her toward Lola. "Am I losing my touch?"

"Hardly. I'll accept as many as you can give me."

He handed her into the passenger seat, helping her duck under the rim of the top. It was much too cold to make his pregnant wife endure an open-top ride, after all. "Was that a challenge, Mrs. Coulson?"

"Very much so."

They had not been to this hotel since before Rosie's birth, but both had fond memories of it. He had booked one of the suites on the top floor, and upon arriving at the door realized that it was the same one they had spent a week or so in several years before, shortly after Jemma had revealed an unknown prowess with Mjolnir. "Look familiar?"

Jemma looked around the sitting room, a smile growing on her face. "Well, I think so, but to be sure I would need to re-acquaint myself with the bedroom. I recall spending a good bit of time there."

She sighed with delight at the sight of the large bed, and he steadied her as she kicked off her shoes and wriggled out of her trousers. "I want to take a nap," she said happily, smiling at him as he helped her unclasp her bra and then handed her one of his t-shirts. "Later, I promise, I will put on some very naughty underwear and absolutely astound you."

"Jemma, I'm not going to deny that the idea of a nap sounds absolutely amazing." He stripped off his own clothing, slipping under the covers to lie down beside her. "How naughty, exactly?" he asked curiously, propping himself up on one elbow and reaching around her to stroke the curve of her belly. "I need to know… for science."

"For a woman who is six months pregnant, fairly naughty, I think." She snuggled down into the sheets, clasping a hand over his. "You'll have to let me know how it rates."

"It's not too uncomfortable, is it?"

"You are probably the only man I know who has ever worried about how comfortable a woman's lingerie is." She tilted her head just enough to glance back at him, her look teasing. "Generally the point of lingerie is to get it off _before_ it becomes uncomfortable."

"You have a fair point." He settled beside her, drawing her into the curve of his body. She was so soft and lovely, his petite wife, and fit so perfectly under his arm. "Is the baby still kicking?"

"Your son has stopped for the moment." She yawned, drawing the covers up another few inches. "Which is good, because he woke me up twice last night."

Which had woken him up. He preferred that, really- better to be awake with Jemma than accidentally sleep through something, for good or ill. "Go to sleep while he lets you, love."

She hummed happily, burrowing back against him. "My Phil."

"My Jemma," he murmured in response, nuzzling his nose against her hair. "Happy birthday."


End file.
